Passion. Yes, normally we normally associate it with panting, Berlin’s Take My Breath Away and glistening well-tanned loins. But there is another kind of passion too. Less sweaty, but every bit as fervent and breathless as the bedroom variety.

And by that I mean... embroidery.

Although to be fair, the bigger picture includes, among other pastimes, stamp collecting, train spotting, bird watching and surfing the internet.

On the face it, for many people, these interests promise all the excitement of a dialling tone. But for others, they act as an anchor in life’s stormy waters.

And very rarely, one of these individuals will prove so exciting, so dynamic and deliciously charismatic that no matter how much the Penny Black or the Flying Scotsman leave you cold, you’ll find yourself asking: “So even then, it was issued as an adhesive stamp...?”

Interestingly, I myself have made the same kind of conversion that catapulted St Paul on the road to Damascus into Christianity’s higher echelons.

Last Monday you see, I received an invitation to discuss a forthcoming exhibition at the Ashmolean Museum.

Entitled Eye of The Needle, it opens in August and showcases of all things, 17th Century embroideries. Yes, you read that right, embroidery and the 17th century.

Anyway, regardless of my personal reservations, I accepted to meet with the museum because... oh hell why don’t I just admit it... I hoped they’d buy me lunch (no shame in that; after all, if it wasn’t me it’d be somebody else).

And very nice it was too (I had risotto).

What caught me off-guard was how quickly I became a convert to all things embroidered and tea towel-looking.

This I hasten to add wasn’t because the subject itself moved and inspired me – at least not at first – but simply because the person explaining the importance of the exhibition did so in such a refreshing manner.

But then that’s true of so many of the people who work at Oxford’s Ashmolean.

Knowledge and passion combined is a heady drug. And there’s no question that after two hours of being challenged, teased and baptised by the museum’s missionary, I left and walked out into Beaumont Street energised and liberated by the power of the sewing needle.

Alone, it has charted the rise and fall of empires, faith’s extraordinary hold on history and, at its most accessible, allowed cat lovers to over-decorate their homes to an almost fur ball level.

And astonishingly, despite the fact more than 72 hours have passed since this encounter, I’m still excited by the thought of helping spread the message (though I refuse to attempt embroidery myself due to the pain pricking your finger with a two inch needle can cause).

Which I guess proves that anything and everything can be interesting if properly and exquisitely preached.